


Mutt

by Raven_Ehtar



Series: Loki's Brood [11]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Norse Religion & Lore
Genre: Established Relationship, Family, Family Feels, FrostIron - Freeform, Gen, Loki's Kids, M/M, POV Child, Parent Loki, Parent Tony Stark, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2014-10-17
Packaged: 2018-02-21 13:38:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2470220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raven_Ehtar/pseuds/Raven_Ehtar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They spoke behind their hands. They said that they truly must be Loki's brood, his get by some brutal jötynja whore. He was <i>proud</i> to be his father's son!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mutt

**Author's Note:**

> And once more into the fray, this time with an installment taken from Fenrir’s POV - for the most part. This will make two installments from the triplets’ POVs so far, with only Jör left to go. We’ll get to him soon.
> 
> As a bit of a heads up, after this installment there’s going to be a longish wait until the next one. November is National Novel Writing Month, and Loki’s Brood is not on my list of projects to power through for the month, and after that I have some semi-major personal things scheduled that are just guaranteed to mess with my writing routine. So. You have been warned. 
> 
> Want a really nice track to go along with Fenrir? Try _Wolf_ by First Aid Kit, it works very well! (And also remember there's a 'Loki's Brood' album up on [8tracks](http://8tracks.com/raven-ehtar/loki-s-brood). :D)
> 
>  **Historian’s Note:** This series takes place after Phase One. Anything post The Avengers is not taken into account.

The day was warm, breezy and not too full of sounds. It was still early in the warm seasons yet, the thick white cold all melted and run away, and many bright green fingers reaching up from the warm soil for the warmer sky. The days were longer now, which was all to the good; the nights were shorter, which was fine after such a long season of sleep. 

The squirrel edged out onto the branch and surveyed his tiny kingdom. He was a city squirrel, it was true, but had claimed his territory in one of New York’s many parks. To many, it was the city’s _only_ park. At nearly 850 acres of grass, trees and water, Central Park had more than enough space for the squirrel and his cousins to roam about without jostling each other more than was tolerable. If ever it did become too crowded – which sometimes happened during the kit seasons – then the city itself provided opportunities for the enterprising squirrel. But this one commanded a portion of the park, prime territory for a young male in his first year of adulthood, and as much as he was capable of understanding his fortunes, he was happy.

Now was a time of food gathering. A time of food seeking was always, but now was food-seeking and food-stashing… and some food-eating. It was the warm seasons and the food cashes were all empty, emptied during the cold seasons. The squirrel would have to find the hard-hard foods, find and stash for when the thick white cold returned and there was no more tender green. 

Of course the squirrel didn’t think it all through quite in this way. He was not like the man-things that roamed his kingdom and dropped tasty foods, his mind was not structured for the same careful reasoning. His tiny body was governed by instinct, instinct he had inherited from countless generations of squirrels before him. Instinct had served them all well, would for him and any kits he fathered, and it urged him along, guided him in ways he was only vaguely aware of. Warm seasons meant food-seeking, food-stashing; warm seasons meant she-squirrels and nest building; warm seasons meant busy busy busy. 

The squirrel flicked his tail a few times, resettling the fur, nibbled experimentally at the bark between his forepaws, and looked one last time before beginning his descent to the ground. 

Clinging upside down to the trunk of the tree, the squirrel stopped several times to listen and to survey his surroundings. He was a young squirrel, but he had learned well in his time as a kit and in adolescence. The ground was a place of danger. Dogs, cats and other predators prowled down here, and would not hesitate to pounce on him, to eat him if they could. There were also man-things, which didn’t eat squirrel, but could cause all manner of hurts. Young man-things and man-things on round legs that made them move so fast it were especially bad. The squirrel had learned to avoid them, to descend from the branches with the utmost caution. While in the trees, he was safe. None could match the squirrel for swiftness and dexterity in climbing, not even cats, though it was good to remember that they _could_ follow, even if they were clumsy.

On the ground the squirrel was vulnerable. Anything could walk, and birds could swoop down from the wide blue while he was exposed and carry him away. He had seen it once, a littermate there and then gone in a blink, and had not once forgotten it.

So he moved cautiously, stopped often to look, hear and scent. This was a quiet corner of his kingdom, and there was no sign of man-things, dogs or cats. When he reached the very bottom of the trunk, and his tiny paws left the bark to touch earth and grass, he was feeling confident. There were none of the man-things near, nor their dogs. They made such a racket wherever they went that the squirrel would hear them long before they were upon him, or before they could get between him and his tree. The worst dangers were the diving and the pouncing shapes, and for those he always kept one ear cocked, one eye scanning. 

The squirrel scurried out onto the grass and began his search for food.

There were busier parts of the park, where the man-things dropped food all the time, easy meals for a hungry squirrel, but those foods were always soft. His instinct whispered to him, told him that the food-stash had to be hard-hard to survive the cold seasons. 

He searched the ground, running, stopping, digging, running again. His luck was poor in this peaceable corner, and he moved further and further away from his protective tree to continue his search.

Suddenly he stopped, body rigid, black eyes bright, bushy tail held utterly still. His ears swiveled back and forth intently, his nose working furiously. 

There had been no sound, no smell to alert him, but something, another instinct perhaps, was singing all along his fur: danger!

He listened and heard nothing. He scented and could smell nothing. His bead black eyes darted all around, but he could not see the danger his whole body trembled to. In his searching the grass for foods, he had been slowly working his way towards a low, thick clump of bushes. The squirrel eyed it suspiciously, his small mind naming it a likely hiding spot of some cat or small man-thing. But he was downwind of the clump, and could sniff out nothing more than the bushes themselves. 

His tail twitched in agitation. He sensed nothing, yet could not be rid of the feeling that something was near, that he was being _hunted_. Instinct told him to bolt up his tree, get off the ground and into safety, while memory told him that the base of his tree, the tree he _knew_ was safe, was far behind him. 

Without confirmation of danger, the squirrel’s instincts warred each other. He was uncertain and hungry, and the thrum of _busy busy busy_ hadn’t subsided. 

Finally, one eye still on the low clumps of bush, the squirrel slowly edged to his tree. There were other places to gather foods. Places that were peaceful and did not send his fur to prickling with spectral danger warnings. 

A sound, as of a breeze, pricked his ear, and the singing of instinct became a shriek when the squirrel realized the sound was coming from behind. 

He turned his head even as he leapt forward but it was too late, the danger was on him already. The squirrel had a brief, final wash of sight and senses – dog-thing, _big_ dog-thing, teeth, kill-meat breath, flashing eyes, snap-crunch – _pain_ –

And then the squirrel knew no more, for there was nothing left of him to know.

* * *

The big dog-thing, which was really a big _wolf_ ¬-thing, tossed his head vigorously, making certain that his prey would move and fight and flee no more. Once certain, he tossed his prize high into the air, elation making him playful. 

With a practiced air the wolf cub snatched the little morsel of meat as it fell, jaws clicking together with a snap and nipping the meatless tail neatly off. Then the wolf cub settled down and began to eat the little he-squirrel. 

Fenrir was pleased with himself. He had become quite adept at hunting the little gray rodents, this one had only noticed him when it was far too late to run away. Soon Fen hoped his prey would only realize their danger as they were sliding down his throat. It had taken time to get the trick of squirrels right. He had to be so very patient, waiting for them to come down, for them to get some distance away from their tree, and then to position himself between the two without being spotted or scented. 

But Fen had learned the trick and become skilled at his squirrel kills. The time it had taken to learn and then to sit and wait for each morsel was well rewarded. The meat prizes were small, but they were so very good. Hot flesh and blood, so fresh he could still taste the bubbling life of it, feel as it joined with his own, adding to his strength. It was nothing like the food he had when he was in man-shape. That only ever filled his belly, never his _being_. And quite beyond the meat itself, was the hunt, the kill—

Nothing could take its place. With his small kill in a secluded corner of Central Park, Fenrir was happy, and ate.

Tiny bones and fur followed meat and blood down the wide, ravenous throat. When there was aught left of the young squirrel but the neatly severed tail, the wolf licked his chops with relish. He looked hopefully around himself, up into the branches overhead should any more morsels wish to come down and meet his jaws. The squirrel had served to but whet his appetite. He was still hungry. 

No other small live things met his eager eyes. The noise and smell of this kill had alerted any other potential prey, they would not come near the hungry wolf in their midst. Fenrir snorted in disgust. Even a bunch of city rodents that had never had a _real_ predator among them before could be expected to scatter at the smell of blood, he supposed.

Ah, well. That was what the hunt was for.

Fenrir left the tiny clearing, adopting a sliding gait that allowed him to fade into the underbrush with only the softest of sounds to mark his passing. It was a hunter’s tread, one that had served his kin well through the generations to make them a part of the background, a deeper shadow flitting at the edges of one’s eye. It was another skill that he was learning without guidance, this ability to track and stalk his prey undetected, and he was rather proud of it – and himself. 

Though in all honesty, he was a little uncertain of his prowess. Fenrir was more than a simple wolf. Unlike his squirrel meal, _he_ was able to reason inside his furry head when he felt like it, which was not very often. It was easier to think in terms familiar to his wolf-shape, even when he was in man-shape. The thoughts of a wolf were simple, direct and to the point, where the minds of men delighted in making complex what should be simple. All the same, Fenrir was capable of complex thought, and one such concerned his hunting skills.

He knew he was learning because his kills now came with ease, and he was more than a little certain that all that he had learned was above and beyond what was required to take down a handful of fat city squirrels. 

But how could he know for certain? Without a true challenge to set his burgeoning skills against how would he ever know for certain if he were as skilled as he believed? How could he be sure that he wasn’t just deceiving himself, using a few victories over tree rats as proof?

How was a wolf meant to grow strong hunting squirrels? He needed stronger, cleverer game to test himself, to hunt and to kill and to eat. 

Trapped in this city, what he was allowed to hunt was extremely limited - only what could be found in the park, and even then there were restrictions. Squirrels he could have. They were so small and so plentiful that no one took note when one vanished down a gulping throat. The same was true of mice, rats, and any birds he might manage to bring down. He never told anyone about the few cats he had slain, on the basis that he might be ordered cease doing so, as he had with the dogs. The loss of the dogs was a disappointment only in how large a meal they would have made. As far as challenge went, they weren’t much more than the squirrels – in some ways, they were even less of a challenge, with no skill to climb trees to escape and a trained-in, oblivious quality that made them view any approaching creature as a potential friend first and enemy second.

And mankind, of course, was totally off-limits. Fenrir had never even attempted to bring down a human. The time when he might have thought it worth the punishment it would earn him, he had been far too small to attempt it. Now he was older, and he knew better. Men did not take to the killing of their own kindly. They responded with weapons, cages and poisons, and they responded in _force_. Fenrir was far too small to withstand the vengeance that would be taken for even a single human kill. Besides, he had come to know several humans over these last few years in Midgard, not the least of which being Tony, Father’s mate. Setting fang to human flesh would upset Father and his mate terribly, and Fen was loath to do that. Plus, he rather suspected that doing so would make _himself_ uncomfortable. Just the thought of it made him a little uneasy, though he couldn’t say why. The notion had never bothered him before Midgard. 

Fenrir prowled the undergrowth of Central Park, snorting at the detritus that came under his nose, thinking un-wolfish thoughts. 

He neared one of the more populated areas of the park. It could hardly be avoided; the park was a tourist attraction as well as a hotspot for anyone living in the five boroughs. Even within its wide acreage, running across fellow park goers was inevitable. The first sign that he was approaching others were the shouts, far off but still audible to his furry ears. The second was the sight of a medium sized, golden haired dog loping along the paved path, tongue lolling and completely oblivious to the wolf slinking through the brush beside the path. 

Fenrir went utterly still. Within the leaves his dappled coat camouflaged him to near invisibility, so even had the yellow dog been looking his way it would not have spotted the large wolf-shape so near to it. Luck also had him downwind of the cavorting dog, and in his stillness Fen was silent. 

Though in all probability his caution was wasted. The dog was unaware of the young wolf not ten yards away, and Fen was fairly certain it was unaware of _everything_ save the bright, highlighter yellow tennis ball it was alternately chasing, tossing, and chewing on. The toy took up all of its attention. 

It was perfect quarry, half the work was done for Fen already. 

With mixed feelings and mixed instincts, Fenrir watched the dog. The wolf instinct that was nearest to his heart impelled him to hunt the dog, this creature that was like but unlike him, and which presented itself so defenselessly. It urged him to spring forward, sink teeth and devour the dog, to sate the hunger in his belly. What kept him crouched in the brush was a second instinct, in direct opposition to the first. 

This second instinct was not one that came from within himself. It had been trained into him, but it still claimed a strong hold on his mind, and this was the instinct of obedience. It had been impressed on him, firmly and repeatedly, that he was Not To Hunt Dogs, more especially if they were wearing collars. It was a Rule, one enforced by his entire pack-family, but most importantly by Father and Father’s mate. 

The Rule by itself had no hold on Fenrir the wolf. Rules were only sounds, unless they were of the type that all of nature bowed to, such as the Rule of squirrels being good to eat but hard to catch, or the Rule of air being good to breathe and water good to drink, but not the other way around. The Rule had a relatively weak hold on Fenrir the boy as well, but with his blunt snout and slow legs, Fenrir the boy was far less likely to hunt dog for his meat. It was the instinct of _obedience_ that held Fenrir, the wolf and the boy. This was the instinct that told him Father was to be obeyed, and in this indirect way the Rule to let alone dog in his hunting became an imposed instinct, checking the first. 

By themselves these two warring impulses would leave the young cub frozen and undecided, but it was a third, deeper instinct that set him to trembling. It was something from neither the wolf nor the man residing within him, alien and yet familiar. This instinct oozed up into his mind and enveloped his senses, whispering insinuations so quietly Fen didn’t notice until he was already fighting against them. They, too, directed Fen to hunt the dog, but unlike his first instinct, it said this was a right thing to do without a key element of the hunt. It was not to consume prey that this instinct sang out to him, but to bring down the dog and destroy it. Devour it perhaps, but only to be certain the dog was utterly destroyed, erased from the world. 

The instinct saw the dog through his eyes in all of its bright, golden, joyful play, and it raged. It saw the happiness of this clueless creature and wanted nothing more than to snuff it out, to lay open the throat and let the life flow out into the dirt, the dog’s bright eye dulling. 

It was an unnerving sensation that Fenrir was used to only in the sense that he was familiar with it and not alarmed by its mere presence. It was an instinct that rose up whenever he hunted, or was in the grip of one of his rages, or sometimes just while at play. It was not a discerning thing, it would whisper to him to destroy any live creature near him, whether it was dog, cat, bird or human; whether it was enemy, stranger, family or memory. And just as he had learned to expect this dark instinct, he had also learned to ignore it, to bury it down inside himself until he heard it no more. 

Most of the time he was successful. 

The yellow dog continued in its play, and Fenrir allowed a man-shaped thought to cross his wolf brain, and wondered where the dog’s master was. It wore a collar, complete with a tag, so was not a stray, and the clean new tennis ball said it had not run away. The dog master must be close, but where? No sound of calling or quick, searching footfalls made it to his ears. Was the dog master out of Fen’s sight, keeping watch over his dog?

Hidden in the brush, Fenrir felt a confounding mix of feeling while watching this ridiculous sunspot of a canine. Apart from his instincts to hunt and destroy, he had an almost overwhelming urge to join the play. He was still a young wolf, whatever his size might suggest, and there lurked an eagerness for play and playmates in his heart. The man-shaped thoughts might scoff the tennis ball and the dog’s antics, but his puppyish spirit longed for it, to romp and play with this potential new friend. 

But there he was checked again from acting, this time by experience. He had never before attempted friendly overtures with a Midgardian dog, but he assumed the species was much the same from Realm to Realm, and the dogs he had known before had all met his friendly curiosity with bared fangs and savage growls. As a very small cub he had never been encouraged to interact with any beings beside Hela and Jörmungandr, his littermates. The few times he had attempted such an act he had been sharply rebuked, more than once given sharp teeth for his daring. Dogs and even other wolves did not take kindly to his company, and he learned to stay away. 

That had been in Járnviðr, with his mother in the cave-hut. 

When the warriors had come he had learned new reasons to avoid company, not the least of which being the savage hunting dogs they had brought with them. 

So there rose a kind of resentment toward this dog, which it had in no way deserved. Fenrir resented this bright yellow dog with its bright yellow ball, out in the open and frolicking freely in the bright yellow sunshine, while he could only watch. He resented the freedom of this dog, and he resented its innocence. Never had this pampered pup been forced to endure half of what he had, never felt the sharp slash of tooth or blade, or had heaped on it the indignities of bondage and abduction. This city-soft _pet,_ had all such good things as it could ever want, knew nothing of the world and its cruelties, while he, Fenrir, was left to hide in the bushes. 

His resentment grew, colored his vision at the edges with hatred, fed the dark instinct and made his hackles prickle all along his spine. Resentment and hatred were both unnatural to the wolf-shape, but his man-shape knew them well, and they burrowed deep into his heart. 

Out on the path, the yellow dog suddenly looked up, its ridiculous floppy ears twitching. It looked round a moment before its eyes came to Fenrir’s bush, where its eyes fixed, whole body atremble. 

It was only then that Fen realized that he was growling, a long, low, constant, terrible growl. The growing hate had so colored his vision and clogged his ears that he hadn’t noticed when he began, nor that his lips had wrinkled back to reveal long fangs. Once aware of it, and with the dog aware of him, Fenrir did not attempt to silence himself. Instead, he disentangled himself from his hiding place and faced the dog out on the paved trail. 

The sunspot dog froze at sight of Fenrir, ears perked forward, all four legs gone stiff. Fenrir was larger than the dog by far, a full hand span taller and more than a score of pounds heavier. The sunspot dog was not small, Fen was just that big. And where the dog was undoubtedly _dog_ , Fenrir was just as certainly _not_ dog. The cut and shape of him marked him as something out of the wild, something dangerous the dog would only know as the faintest echo from its ancestry. It was an echo that could only grow louder at sight of Fen, his teeth bared, fur bristling, golden eyes flashing hate. It was a recognition that spoke to the dog’s deepest fibers, though all it had known in life was softness and play.

 _Here stands danger_ , it said. _Here stands hurt and death and destruction. To attack is to die, to run is to die, to remain still… is to die._

The two stood on the path, staring each other down, one trembling on his paws from fright and indecision, the other trembling from indecision and a fight to control his instincts. 

If the dog had run, or attacked, or tried to make peace by cowering to the ground and belly-crawling to the snarling wolf before him, then Fenrir wasn’t sure what would have happened. The man-shaped thoughts, never a welcome addition inside his skull, were all driven out by a haze of rage and battling instincts. Any act on the part of the sunspot dog would be the trigger.

Luckily for the dog, and perhaps for Fenrir as well, what broke the standoff was the sharp call of a voice.

“Nero! Nero, come!”

The dog’s ears perked at the sound, but though it trembled even more violently than before, the dog did not take its eyes from Fenrir for an instant. It wasn’t until the source, a man in office shoes and a collared shirt, came crashing around the corner that the dog would even flick its eyes away from Fen. Pampered pet or not, old instincts were come alive, and they told him in no uncertain terms, _do not give ground_. 

The man did not notice Fenrir at first. The path was closely bordered by shrubs and ornamental stones, which Fen was just on the exposed side of, and the man had to come round a bend to find his dog. He walked past Fenrir, one calf coming within inches of his teeth, and did not see him. 

“There you are!” the man cooed to his dog, petting its frozen head. “You know better than to run off like that, you fool dog. You trying to get us kicked out? Hey,” the man’s tone changed as he finally noticed his dog’s posture. “What’s wrong, Nero?”

The man looked around to find what the matter was, perhaps hearing the unceasing growls once his nattering quieted. When his eyes fell on Fenrir they nearly popped out of his head. He gave a little, strangled scream and fell on his arse. 

Fenrir did not move, but lowered his head and wrinkled his lips until a ridge of bristling fur ran up his muzzle, his snarl becoming only more savage. The dog’s hackles rose involuntarily even as its legs began to bend in a submissive cower. The man continued to yell, making mouth sounds Fen knew he should understand, but the wolf mind, overwhelmed by instinct, would not let him understand. For now they were incomprehensible noises made by a terrified man who might soon become food.

“Someone help, there’s a fucking _wolf_ over here!”

A particular scent tickled Fenrir’s nose, further driving away the man-shaped thoughts and strengthening the dark instinct. Fear-stink was pouring off of the man, thick and bitter to his sensitive nose, stirring memories of other men and their fear. Fen’s legs grew tense, bracing for a leap—

“Fenrir, hold!”

The man-shaped words snapped through the instinct haze, freezing him. His body still thrummed through with the desire to leap, to drive and to tear—but the name – his name – cut through him, draining the strength out of his limbs. Still bristling and snarling, Fenrir felt himself wilt. 

Another man came charging down the path, scent before sight identifying him to Fen. This was Thor, uncle and pack mate, elder and superior, he was to be obeyed in absence of Father or Father’s mate. The strength of Fen’s limbs drained further, his hair lying flat, his lips falling to cover his fangs. 

Uncle Thor took in the scene before him in a sweep, and without losing a moment bared his fangs – no, _smiled_ at the man and his dog. “Ah, thank you!” He made the man-shaped mouth noises, which Fen’s calming mind reluctantly began recognizing as words. “I’m afraid my dog, in his excitement, got away from me. I was afraid I would not be able to find him at all. I truly thank you, sir.” He inclined his head, a man sign of mild submission, and then turned to Fenrir.

His uncle might have been making peace overtures to the man, Fenrir recognized the signs and tones well enough, but towards his nephew there was no peace. He walked with stiff legs, his body slightly angled so he was not directly facing him, his eyes fixed on Fen’s and his brows drawn low. His hands, empty now but so easily filled with either weapon or lightning, were held slightly to his sides, ready. His uncle approached him cautiously, ready to catch a leap should it come.

Fenrir had to fight from crouching low, to keep from resuming his fierce snarl. It was difficult, but the return of man-shaped thoughts made it possible, gave him the power of reason to pair with his observation. He remained still and suffered himself to be _petted_ as his uncle convinced the quavering man that he was merely a dog. 

“Dog?” The man was incredulous, still sprawled in the dust with his dog, which was nuzzling him worriedly now the wolf was being watched by another human. “ _That’s_ a fucking dog? What breed of dog looks like that?”

Thor hesitated, and Fenrir tensed ever so slightly under his hand. 

“He is a mixed breed,” he replied, turning back to flash his teeth again in that way that men found reassuring. Fen remembered, now his reasoning had returned, that the baring of teeth was meant as a submissive gesture among humans. So strange, and not entirely true, it all depended upon the context. 

The man was climbing to his feet, the scowl on his face advertizing that he had passed from fear into anger. Plenty of residual fear-stink still hung in the air, though, and his lingering fear and the embarrassment he felt as a result fuelled his anger. “Yeah?” he said, brushing off his pants with quick, distracted motions. “Well, learn to put your mutt on a damned leash. Animal that big running around loose… you’ll be lucky if the cops don’t get called, euthanize the damned thing… obviously out of its mind. I have half a mind to call them myself.” The man made as though to reach for a phone in his pants pocket. 

This was a game Fenrir could recognize even without the man-shaped thoughts to reason it out. Fear-stink still seeped from the man, his body language and tone were both angry. He was shamed, and intended to reassert dominance by whatever control or fear he could impose - which was pathetically little. Conscious of his uncle, Fen contented himself with laying his ears back against his skull as he glowered at the man.

His uncle was less kind. The smile shrank, became less kind. He looked down very deliberately at the man’s dog, which was conspicuously without a leash. The man hesitated, his hand hovering at his pocket. 

“I would consider any action you take most carefully, my friend,” Thor said quietly. Dangerously. “To my understanding the police are kept most busy, and would not appreciate frivolous calls.” He leaned forward, imposing himself into the man’s personal space. He only just seemed to realize that Thor was a very large man to match the large ‘dog’ behind him. “They may take some time to get here.”

The man eyed his uncle Thor up and down, taking in the broad shoulders and powerful arms prominently on display with the dark fitted tank he wore when wandering around in Midgard. The man took an unconscious step backward, giving ground. His hands fidgeted together before settling on his dog’s head. He took another step away, the dog following to stay at his side. “Yes… well, just keep that _thing_ under control…”

The man continued to mutter to himself as he beat a retreat, dog at his heels. Fen’s keen hearing was able to make out the words being said for some time after the two turned a corner and were out of sight, the last of which being, “…damned mutt…”

Fen watched them, the man in the collared shirt and the sunspot dog, both of their tails low as they left. The sight of retreating backs made Fen want to take up chase, but it was a much weaker urge than before. The nearly overpowering intensity of his instincts had died down and were manageable, Fenrir was strong enough to resist them. 

Harder to ignore were the messages borne to him by his nose. Clinging to his uncle like a cloak were the scents of that other place, Asgard. He had returned from there recently, and those odors had yet to dissipate, even after changes of clothes and bathing. Fen was convinced that he could make out the individual scents of people, people whose faces were yet burned into his memory. When mixed with the lingering fear-stink of the man, memories became sharp edged, stuck in his brain like knives. 

With man and dog well out of sight, Uncle Thor turned his attention fully to him, no longer concealing his scowl. His face was stormy, brows drawn low and lips turned down. Fenrir was prepared for a verbal barrage, braced for his uncle’s anger for having wandered away and transforming – he’d been expecting it from the first step he had taken away to hunt squirrels. 

But he was surprised. After a moment or two of staring silently at his nephew, the big man sighed. “Very well, then,” he said, apparently to himself. “Come along, nephew.” He beckoned with his hand.

He made to turn away, to walk in the direction where Fen knew their car was parked, but stopped, flinging out a hand toward Fenrir, palm flat. “No,” he said sharply, forestalling all motion on the wolf’s part. “You are to remain as you are until we are in no danger of being observed. Do you understand?”

Eying his uncle, Fen heaved a breath and jerked his nose up into the air, the closest he could get to a man’s nod without feeling utterly ridiculous. 

Satisfied, Thor nodded, turned his back to Fen and walked away. Fenrir marveled a little that he trusted enough to take his eyes off of him. Fen shook himself from nose to tail and trotted after, keeping up easily. 

Once they were back in the chauffeured town car – it had to be chauffeured, no one trusted Thor to attempt driving – Fen curled up as best he was able on the floor. It would have been easier to change to his smaller man-shape, but he was loath to change. He vastly preferred to have four paws to the earth and jaws full of sharp teeth. Being a little cramped was a small price to pay. 

An added bonus of his wolf-shape was not being expected to speak. 

For the first part of the journey his uncle seemed content to let the silence go on until they reached the Mansion. It suited Fen just fine. He was glad for the necessity of driving in a Midgardian vehicle, as opposed to his uncle flying them across town, but it did provide a rather inconvenient opportunity for conversation. 

As was bound to happen, his uncle eventually broke the silence. Fen wished he could keep his wolf brain close enough to be spared the understanding of his words. 

“I shall have to speak to your fathers about your behavior today, nephew.”

He wanted to groan, but all he did was flick one ear to show that he had heard. Otherwise he kept his head down, pillowed on his forepaws, and his eyes closed, as though trying to sleep. But his uncle was not so easily put off. 

“It was a terrible risk you took, Fen,” he said, his attempt to sound properly admonishing an obvious strain. His uncle, despite years of knowing his young relatives, had never become accustomed to playing the disciplinarian. It wasn’t his natural role, and irregular practice had only moderately improved the skill. “Has not your father, have not we _all_ made it clear what may happen if your nature is revealed? You are not only putting yourself in danger, but your entire family, most especially you brother and sister.”

A muscle in Fen’s shoulder twitched, and he thumped his tail against the car floor impatiently. Yes, he knew the risks, they were impressed on him daily. He could recite the various speeches everyone had on the subject by heart. And this, he knew, was only the first in a long line of those same speeches told him all over again. He broke the Rule, so obviously it needed to be reiterated. He could hardly wait.

“I know you dislike hiding your true nature. You wish to be yourself in your new home, to not conceal yourself. It is my most fervent hope that someday it will be so, for you and for Hela and Jörmungandr, but that time is not now. We can defend you from many threats, but not all. You must be able to defend yourselves as well, and you cannot. Not yet.”

Fen gave no response save to lay his ears back against his skull, a motion that was equal parts anger and shame, and his uncle was perceptive enough to interpret the motion and cease his admonishment. The car fell silent, save for the sounds of the motor, wheels and passing traffic, which Fen had long ago learned to tune out as white noise. 

He knew he was too weak to be of any use in battle. He was still too small, though it seemed not a day went by without someone mentioning just how _big_ he had gotten, especially in his wolf-shape. But it was still too small, too small, too small! He needed to grow bigger and more powerful, stronger and faster, sharp of tooth and keen of senses, so he could stand against any threat. Then he would show all the Realms that he feared nothing. He would stand with head raised and tail proud beside his littermates. 

If any dared attack them again, then Fenrir the Wolf would be ready to defend his pack and siblings. 

But that time was not now, as his uncle said. He was still a cub, inexperienced in the ways of battle and ill-equipped for anything beyond a test of physical prowess. Battle was more than tooth and claw, Fen knew from watching his pack fight. There were strategy battles and magic battles and politic battles and technology battles and any number of other types of battle that could be fought. To be truly formidable, he would have to learn them all.

Until he was ready, until he was sure of himself, Fenrir would not seek out battle. Sharp memories and man-shaped reasoning kept his blood lust under control, at least most of the time. 

Without intending to, Fen fell into those sharp memories, lulled by the white noise of the car and guided by the scents of Asgard and fear.

* * *

The cave hut had been cozy, a safe place of warmth against the clutching, clawing cold outside. The hearth embers were burning low, glowing gently in their bed. All around him were the soft sounds of breathing, the even softer scents of littermates and Mother. Fen, Jör and Hela had lain before the hearth, nuzzled deep into the pile of furs and blankets, the three of them curled around each other and Mother snuggled close to all three of them. He remembered her, so large and ferocious and strong, her love for them as fierce as anything he had ever seen. 

Her eyes had been golden, he remembered, ringed with black like his. 

Then came the sudden crashing noise out of the dark, a clanking and roaring, the rush of frozen air and icy claws of snow into their cave hut just ahead of a wave of men and barking dogs. It hadn’t seemed possible that the men, their flashing weapons and their hounds could fit in the cramped space, but they did. They filled the cave hut with their bodies, their stink, their noise. 

Confusion and terror, his littermates struggling to wakefulness around him. 

Their mother hadn’t been confused. She hadn’t been frightened. At the first sound she had sprung up, teeth bared and golden eyes flashing, axe in one hand and poker from the hearth in the other, its tip glowing red with menace in the dark. She snarled at them, these men who dared invade her home and threaten with flashing blades. One woman against an entire pack, and she _snarled_ at them. No fear. No uncertainty. Only rage. 

Then she had leapt at them, axe and poker arcing through the air. 

It was the first battle Fenrir had ever seen. He witnessed hunts before, where either the prey escaped or the predator ate, but he had never seen a _battle_ in his young life. He watched, he and his littermates all backed into the corner beside the hearth, and amid his own terror and wonder, he bared his tiny fangs. 

His mother was a hunter, a warrior, and she was _strong_. The first blood to splatter the stones was not hers, nor was the second or third. The screams and yelps of pain, the stench of burning flesh and hair came not from her, but from whomever dared stand before her. Every swing of her arms was an curve reddened by the life of her enemies. Fenrir stood, stiff legged and fur bristling, lips wrinkled back, and his terror had melted away. Instead he was filled with the desire to fight beside his mother. She was a fierce warrior, her enemies falling in gasping, bubbling heaps all around her, and he longed to join. Her blood ran hot in his veins, he could fight too!

A foul blow taken from behind, his mother stumbled. She lost her footing, an arm flying wide to regain balance. A man stepped forward quickly with his gleaming blade, still free of blood or stain—

* * *

Lying on the floor of the car, a muscle in his leg twitched, and Fenrir growled very softly at the memories playing behind his lids. 

After that fatal swing of the man’s sword, Fenrir’s memory dulled. Terror, disbelief, grief, rage, they had driven him deep into his wolf mind, and without clear reasoning to link together the chain of events that followed, they became mixed and fuzzy.

He could remember the wall of men, still too many even with so many collapsed in heaps, standing and staring down at his mother. 

He could remember his mother, a moment before the fierceness of life flowing through her, the epicenter of carnage and completely untouchable, now she—no, no, no, don’t look, don’t see, don’t know—

He remembered first one, and then another of the men stepping near. He could remember the snarling of the dogs, their dripping jaws. He could remember the way his littermates had shrunk back into the corner, their fear-stink smell, the way Jör had tried to conform himself to the stones themselves with his lithe form, the way Hela had whimpered, a lost, painful sound. And he could remember the way he had stood between his siblings and the murderous men, the way he had growled. No playful puppy snarl this. Though his legs shook beneath him with terror and chills ran along his sides as he stood near the hearth, he had pulled his lips back, raised his hackles and _snarled_ , imitating his mother in hope of capturing her power. 

He was afraid, but what else was there he could do?

The men had hesitated, a small ball of fury and teeth facing them, but they did not hesitate for long. They reached for him, and when he leapt terror and desperation was all that was left in his mind. He had been knocked back down to earth by a savage cuff to the side of his head. Lights exploded behind his eyes. He heard heavy footsteps coming towards him, over him, around him, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t stop them. His sister had screamed, and then was abruptly, unnaturally silent. He knew even with wolf-shaped thoughts that the men had reached her. Had hurt her. 

And then, because he was only a little cub, he had lost consciousness. 

Memory between then and when the three of them had been ‘rescued’ and brought to Asgard was the dimmest of all his recollections. In a constant state of terror, his wolf mind became his only escape, and it was a very thin one. Even had he wanted to, he doubted now whether he would have been able to take his man-shape. It had been too distant to feel, let alone to wear. 

He could remember next to nothing of what Hela and Jörmungandr endured during that time. They were all kept alive, it seemed, to provide amusement for the men as they travelled the most barren wastes of Járnviðr. Why the men had sought them out, _if_ they had truly sought them out, and why they chose to cart along three children were questions that Fen’s wolf mind was not capable of entertaining. Since then, he had often wondered. 

Jör had always been cold, Fen knew. His reptilian nature did not mix well with harsh Járnviðr winters, and with all of his siblings kept apart there was no way for them to warm him with their bodies. He thought he heard one man threaten Jör with a frozen lake, saying that the dark depths of it were sure to be warmer than the biting wind. 

Fen heard little of Hela in those weeks. There were cries of disgust from time to time, or loud, repulsive conjectures tossed between the men, but of his sister Fen neither saw nor heard a thing. 

Clearest in his memory was of his own binding. A leather thong had been used as a collar and leash to keep him from running away, but that was changed to wire when he bit through the leather on the first day and they’d had to chase him down again through the snow heavy forest. The wire repelled his teeth and any attempts to bite or chew it resulted in pain as it cut into gums and tongue. The collar would tighten around his throat if he fought it, cutting off his breath, and after a while the wire worked its way through his thick fur, so that when it cinched close it dug straight into his flesh. 

But their captors were not satisfied in their suffering unless it also provided some kind of mean entertainment. In Fen’s case, this came as a perverse form of ‘training.’ Using bits of meat and his own starving hunger against him, the men made a game of training the savage wolf cub, to turn him into another of their obedient, fawning dogs. 

He had been so very hungry. Food seemed as distant as the cave hut, the men fed him nearly nothing, and the cold sapped his strength away. Fen had refused to play at first. He would not give obedience to the men who had slain his mother. 

But he had been so hungry. 

One sharp memory was of being bound, and of a man coming near, his hand extended. He knew not what the hand meant to do, whether to strike or to stroke, to cuff or caress. He knew only that this was a man’s hand, that it meant to touch him, and that he could not get away from it. He was so frightened, so tired… so hungry. 

He had not bared his teeth, but as soon as the hand was near he had lashed out with his tiny fangs and sunk them deep. He’d tossed his head savagely from side to side, tearing flesh, ripping it down to bone. The warm taste of blood that filled his mouth had been good, as had the shriek of pain and fright from his tormentor. He had been given little enough time to savor his small victory. His daring and wounding of one of the men had earned him a beating he was never likely to forget, even when he aged to an old and gray wolf. 

That was the nearest he had ever been to true battle, the most he had ever done to inflict real harm. He was bigger and stronger now, but it wasn’t enough. He needed to grow even stronger, but how was he meant to do that while hunting _squirrel_?

The town car came to the Mansion at last, and Fen leapt out as soon as the door was opened. He shook himself and romped a little in the front garden, glad to be out of the tiny space so full of unpleasant memories. On the protected grounds of the Mansion there was no need to be so very cautious about his shapes, and he delighted in the freedom he had to play and tear over the grass on his paws. 

Uncle Thor mounted the steps up to the Mansion, calling back over his shoulder. “I go to seek your Father, Fen. I advise you get yourself cleaned up.” The front door shut with a click after him. 

Fen considered. He was already in trouble, that was a certainty. As soon as his uncle found either one of his fathers, he was sure to get an earful of words, possibly even a punishment, such as the suspension of his games or television for a time. Or his time in the training gyms. He shuddered at the thought. 

Reluctantly, Fenrir made the shift from wolf-shape to man-shape, his senses dulling while his mind sharpened. The world opened up, becoming infinitely wide even as it dimmed and became, somehow, something less than it was. It was the trade he made every time he changed shape, he barely noticed it anymore. What he did notice was his great reduction in size. His man-shape was pathetically small and weak, yet another reason to despise if in favor of the wolf. But it had been made clear that while he was allowed either form in the Mansion, the man-shape was preferred. Fenrir sighed, running a small tongue over his blunted teeth. 

He looked down at himself. He was wearing the least ripped of his jeans, a pair of red and gold sneakers and a tee shirt with iron-daddy’s arc reactor silkscreened on. The design was popular and Clint had gotten it for him as a joke. He wore it all the time, and as a consequence it sported a few holes as well. All of his clothes were covered in dust and dirt, and when he looked, he saw his hands were filthy as well, with dirt packed under all of the nails. Getting cleaned up was probably a good idea. 

He was going to be in trouble no matter what, but he found that the more he did to repair any damage done, the easier things went for him later. 

Using the two legs the man-shape came equipped with, Fenrir followed his uncle up the front steps and inside the Mansion.

Familiar smells greeted him just inside the door, telling him much. He could say with reasonable certainty which members of the pack were in the Mansion and in one case what they were doing – someone was making coffee in the kitchen. 

_“Welcome home, Fenrir.”_

“Hiya, JARVIS,” Fen said, smiling at the ceiling. 

It was an odd thing of his family and pack, this disembodied voice with a name. In the beginning Fen had been inclined to distrust it, but Hela insisted that JARVIS was just a different kind of person, like them. Personally Fen had never been able to see him in quite the same way that she could, but the distrust had faded away. Most of the time, Fen forgot he was there at all. 

Sniffing at the air, it was a simple matter to determine which way his uncle had gone. He had gone straight ahead, where lay the largest and main rooms. The same direction Fen meant to go. He followed, sniffing carefully and keeping his ears open. He would rather avoid stepping in on his uncle explaining what had happened in the park to either one of his fathers. As luck would have it, his uncle’s path veered off to a side, towards the elevators that would take him down to the training and conference rooms. Fenrir’s path lay in the opposite direction, towards the stairs. Maybe he wasn’t out of luck after all. 

“Vonargand!”

He ducked his head, felt his silly man-shaped ears try to press closer to his skull, and the tail he did not have try to tuck underneath him. Perhaps he had thought too soon. 

It was a name of reprimand, in a voice full of snap-slash teeth, and his body responded automatically. It was the voice of Father, the one that the instinct of obedience demanded he subside to. 

Instinct backed by experience. He knew his father had sharp teeth. Though Mother’s had been sharper…

He looked around, one foot on the bottom step. His father bore down on him, the strength of his lean frame evident in his stride, in the set of his shoulders, his easy confidence. He wasn’t stiff legged as he approached, not angry or prepared for lecturing, but his step was quicker than what was natural, and the way his sharp eyes fixed on him told Fen that he was alert to _something_. There was no way Uncle Thor could have reached him and relayed all that had happened in so short a time, but there was _something_ there. 

Once standing before him, his father looked him up and down. Other fathers might be proficient at interpreting what their young had done by simple observation, but Fen doubted that they had quite the advantage or skill of his father. Fen did not bother trying to hide his dirty clothes and hands, but looked up into Father’s eyes as boldly as possible. 

Father smiled, not baring his teeth. “I see you settled on the park for your outing with your uncle.”

Fenrir nodded. He knew better than to lie to Father, whose nose was as finely tuned to lies and truth as his was to squirrel. 

“And how was it?” he asked, no teeth in his words either. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

 _Ah_. He understood this, though he hated it. This was a question to see if he would _try_ to lie, to evade, or if he would come out with the truth all at once. It was a word trap, a simple one of the kind that Father was very good at. Fenrir was not so good at them. He hated them… but he needed to learn. It was a kind of battle that he intended to learn, and he would, no matter how much he hated it. 

He chose evasion as the best possibility, and grinned widely. “Yes,” he said, his voice full of enthusiasm. He held out the front of his shirt by the bottom hem to demonstrate. “I ran around a lot, finding new places. Got a little lost,” he added sheepishly.

Father’s eye glinted. “Ah, I see. You lost your uncle as well?”

Fen started, realizing he had slipped immediately into a lie rather than a simple omission of truth. _Bqllr_. Hitching up his wilting smile, he nodded again. “Yeah. But he found me again real quick.” And he stopped there, before his untrained tongue could create a greater mess.

“Oh, _he_ found _you_? I would have thought it easier for _you_ to find _him_ with your nose.”

Fen hesitated. He knew he should just tell the truth now, Father would learn it all soon enough, and caught in so obvious a lie would only make his situation worse. What would be the point of lying if he was immediately caught? Yet he would swear Father knew already, and was simply allowing him to try his best to get out of it. Was Father encouraging him to practice, or was he just letting Fen dig himself further into trouble? Ah, always so much thinking complex man-shaped thoughts!

Along with lie, evasion and truth, there was another option. Half-truth. He turned his smile into a semi-sheepish smirk. “Probably, but I didn’t want to be found again _too_ soon, so I wandered a little. It was just a game.”

Father raised his eyebrows. “A game, was it?”

“Yeah.”

Father considered this and he considered Fen, looking him up and down again, appraising. Fen held still under the scrutiny. Finally he nodded. “You’re the first back from your outing. Go upstairs and clean yourself, fresh clothes. Then come down and help us decide what we are to have for dinner. And Fenrir.” The boy stopped, halted mid-turn. Father raised one long fingered hand up to his lips and stroked at the corner of his mouth, all the while staring at Fen’s. 

Fen wiped at his lips. A slight smear of red was left on the back of his hand. Blood he had failed to clean away after his hunt. 

He looked up at Father. There was some hardness in his eye that had not been there before, but he still didn’t look _angry_. Fen had been caught in his lie – he would not have blood on him had he remained in his man-shape during his park excursion – but his father did not look angry. 

Without any further attempts at concealing the truth, Fenrir said, “Squirrel.”

“Good,” Father said. It was not ‘good’ because Fen had killed a squirrel, he knew, but ‘good’ because it was _only_ a squirrel. “Clean up thoroughly,” he said, voice flat. “We will discuss this later, Fenrir.”

The boy nodded, and retreated up the stairs to his room and the washroom he and his littermates shared. 

Alone, hot water beating a pattern into his furless skin, the dirt and sweat of his hunt sluicing away from him and down the drain, Fenrir finally allowed himself to feel his anger. It was the worst kind of anger, the aimless shifting kind that had no real target or source. It rose up from the depths of his subconscious, gathered from the accumulation of small events throughout the day, all adding up to something much bigger than it had started and left to swirl around him, lashing out at whatever presented itself. 

He’d been caught in a lie. The fault was his own, but still it rankled. His uncle had admonished him his behavior and he could expect more of the same from the rest of his pack family, possibly even his siblings when they found out. The encounter with the man and the sunspot dog had brought unpleasant memories to the surface of his mind, and the scent of Asgard made them come to life. He had been prepared to kill them both where they stood and now, fully within his man-shaped thoughts, the memory of it made him feel ill. The dark instinct in him had nearly taken control of him, in a public place, within city limits. He’d been a fool, endangering himself, his brother and his sister for the joy of hunting _squirrels_. 

He was so confined that he couldn’t have even that simple joy without consequences. 

He was in trouble and he deserved every ounce of it. 

He was still so small and so weak, with so very little sign that he would grow as strong as he wanted--!

It was all so stupid! So many constrictions all denying his true nature, and always so much thinking! Think, think, think all the time! It made his head ache, his feet itch. So much better to feel and smell and taste and _experience_ , without having to dissect and catalogue it all, turning it over and over, searching for meaning, for hidden secrets. They all did it; his pack, Hela, even Jörmungandr. It was maddening!

He thought of Father. He was undoubtedly the best when it came to the complex, twisting man-shaped thoughts. He could outthink anyone. He was the best. It was a thing he had not inherited from Father, and he wished he had. 

Another memory surfaced. A memory of Asgard, the place that had been home to his father and his uncle, but not his. Never, never his. 

They were everywhere, those tall, proud Asgardians. All around them, whispering to each other until their quiet words built to a roar of susurration, hard eyes fixed on the odd little monsters in their midst. They passed by the comfortable rooms that had been made their prison and they stared. They came too near and they reached out as though to touch, but always they would pull back in horror, either from his little sister’s half face, or his and Jör’s fangs. They hurried away, those elegant creatures with cruel eyes, and they whispered, the sound of skittering insects, never knowing or never caring that Fenrir could hear every word. 

They spoke behind their hands. They said that they truly must be Loki’s brood, his get by some brutal jötynja whore. They said that he, the wolf, was unquestionably his father’s son. That had made him proud, imprisoned in that strange place that smelled of perfume and blood, of honey and iron, because his father was strong and brave and clever, and always made him laugh. He was _proud_ to be his father’s son!

Why did they whisper it? Why did they smell of disgust, why did their posture speak only of disdain, why were the words colored in derision? When they looked at him, he could smell the fear on them, more than his small size could possibly merit, more than all three of them together could possibly answer to, even were they free. 

Why were they all so afraid of them?

Their fear-stink made him angry. When he was angry it showed in his snarls and his bristling fur, and they became more afraid, each feeding off the other until Fen was blind with hate and rage, his nose clogged with the stink of their fear. In his rages he would blindly tear and rip with his teeth, his dark instinct ruling him, but could reach only the air within his prison. Those whose flesh his fangs yearned for were beyond his reach.

Even now, years and Realms away, Fenrir would sometimes fall into such rages, memory and dark instinct working in concert to make him an unrecognizable monster; the kind of monster that they had thought him to be. His rages now were even less effectual than they had been. Those whom he would turn his teeth against were far, far away, even better protected than they had been when within his sight. And he was still too small. Too small, too weak!

Hela would find him when his rages were so terrible. Somehow she always knew, and she would find him and hold him until the fever left him. She was totally unafraid of him, though he could easily tear through her delicate flesh as that of anyone else. Just as she always had in Asgard, she would throw her arms round his throat and hold on for dear life. His, he thought. 

And through the red drenched, fractured thoughts it would sink in – a familiar smell, a littermate with no fear-stink to sour her or stoke his rage.

Slowly, slowly he would calm, the emptiness after the rage leaving him hollow and sick. He would lick his sister’s face and allow her to soothe him until he felt like himself again.

He turned off the water and exited the shower. 

Such a rage would not be coming now, which was good. Hela was far away, at some sort of museum with Dr. Banner, her choice for their vacation day. Jörmungandr was with Pep, touring Stark Industries, which he found fascinating for some reason. Fen had picked a wilderness romp, and while staying within city limits, Central Park had been as close as they could manage. Fen didn’t mind, except…

He sighed. There was nothing to do about it, and thinking only made him chase his own tail. Even if he caught it, he would only be hurting himself. 

He got dressed in clean clothes and padded back down the stairs in his bare feet, ready if not eager to receive what he had earned. In the living room, he found Father’s mate sitting on one of the couches, reading a tablet. He was alone, and looked up the moment he heard Fen’s soft step.

“Hey there, pup,” he said with a small smile. 

Fen smiled back, the nickname simultaneously warming him and stinging his pride. ‘Pup’ for ‘puppy.’

_Still so small._

“Hullo, iron-dad,” he said, using the term his father’s mate like the best.

Making room on the couch when there already was plenty, iron-dad patted a cushion beside him. “C’mere, kiddo, we got some serious-type talkin’ to do.”

Fenrir obeyed, folding his legs underneath him when he sat. The comfort was that Father’s mate was frequently as uncomfortable giving these kinds of speeches as Fen was receiving them. It didn’t stop him, but there was some small comfort knowing that Fen wasn’t alone in his discomfort. 

Tony rearranged himself a little, preparing. He smelled of many things, layers that merged and blended to make a scent that was wholly his. Soap and aftershave, grease and oil, static electricity and sweat, coffee and leather and a faint hint of alcohol, all overlain with the scent of Father clinging to his skin. He cleared his throat. “Your uncle told me about what happened at the park. There anything you want to add before we start?”

Fen began to shake his head, but then he remembered. “Ate a squirrel.” His uncle hadn’t seen that, but Father knew. 

Iron-dad paused, eyebrows raised. Then he sighed. “Alright, I’m not really worried about the squirrel per se, but going four-legged in Central Park is another issue. During the day. When you were meant to be on your best behavior for your uncle. What have we said about that?”

“Not in front of the vermin,” he said, echoing something Father had said long ago.

“Fen…”

“Not in front of the _idiot_ vermin?”

Iron-dad rolled his eyes, fighting a smile. “That’s better, I suppose. But you know why it is that you can’t let anyone see you go from cute little troublemaker to big fearsome troublemaker.”

Fenrir nodded, keeping his eyes up, unashamed. “Yes, I do.”

“Alright then,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “Why don’t you tell me why you decided to ignore that today?”

And Fenrir did his best to explain why, to convey the frustration, the sense of being trapped, and how much a simple bout of hunting squirrels, _squirrels_ , could do to relieve it all. He wasn’t sure that Father’s mate could understand it, the inescapable feeling of being controlled, so that nothing felt as though it were his choice, and _any_ decision that were truly his was like breaking a Rule, like breaking free of bonds. His father’s mate was always so free and irreverent that Fen rather doubted it. 

When he was finished, iron-dad sighed, rubbing his face. For a while he said nothing, staring off into the middle distance somewhere. Finally he shook himself. “Right. Well, you broke a lot of rules today, and only went from bad to worse. It’s not very encouraging for future expeditions. But, personally, I’m rather hesitant to decide on any kind of punishment without input from your father, because I would probably go easy on you.” He smiled what was meant to be an encouraging smile, ruffled his hair. “So we’ll have to discuss it before anything is decided. Hold yourself in readiness until then, eh, pup?”

Fenrir nodded, and trotted after him when he went into the kitchen to browse for a snack.

The day went on in surprisingly normal fashion. Hela and Dr. Banner got back from their excursion to the museum, and soon after Pep brought Jör back from his thrilling escapades at Stark Industries. Reunited, the three of them made their ruling on the night’s meal, and then sat down to play games. This was a vacation day, after all, and they were determined to make the most of it. 

Fen expected to be dragged away from the game at any time, once their fathers had a chance to speak and decide what to do, but it never happened. About an hour before they were meant to have dinner, word came in for the Avengers, and they made their way downstairs to discuss some new threat. The triplets remained upstairs, watched over by none save JARVIS, who was more than enough. 

When they came back up, late enough to put dinner off schedule, most everyone was quiet, but not too grim. Fen wondered what was going on, as he always did, curiosity and desire to join in burning in him, but he resisted. If he asked, then they might remember that he was awaiting some kind of punishment.

He glanced around them all, observing the body language of all and decided that they had left their conference not in complete agreement. That wasn’t strange, they rarely agreed completely on _anything_. But, from the way Captain Steve was walking, the sweeping looks he gave the others, he had pulled rank as leader on some point. 

That was something that had never fully made sense to Fenrir, why it was that Cap was the alpha of the Avengers team. In human ways it made a sort of sense, he supposed, but it still seemed unnatural. Father and his mate were the ones providing offspring and a home, were arguably the strongest and the cleverest, especially when working together. They _ought_ to be the alphas. Of course, certain activities and patterns of behavior also suggested they ought to be omegas. So maybe the human system was the best way to go.

After dinner, Clint touched his shoulder. 

“Hey, kiddo,” he said with a smile. “I’m heading to the range for some practice. You wanna come?”

Fen grinned wide. “Yeah!” Before his fathers could recall that his admonishment was still coming, he raced after Clint to the elevators. 

He doubted that Clint wanted to actually practice at the range. A simple range wasn’t enough to offer any kind of challenge for him; he usually used it to test out new kinds of arrows or to relax. Given how quiet he had been during dinner, Fen thought it more than likely he wanted to shoot a lot of pointy sticks to de-stress. That was fine with him, he needed to de-stress too, and practicing archery always did the trick. 

He liked hanging out with Clint and training with his bow. He liked watching Clint when he was practicing. As the older man pulled back on the string, sighted along the arrow, his breathing going deep and even, he became a _hunter_. All else fell away from him as he focused on the target, his weapon and his breath. In a way, he might as well have been the weapon itself. 

Fenrir watched, captivated every time, and knew that _this_ was what he wanted to be, _this_ was his goal in maturity.

When he took up his bow - still not as large as Clint’s, but larger than the one he had begun with - he attempted to mirror Clint. As he drew and released arrow after arrow, he felt himself relax. It focused him, it focused the rage lurking within him, narrowed it down to a point and sent flying through the air, seeking out the hearts of his enemies. It controlled the rage without binding it, or him. 

He would get bigger, stronger, and he would get cleverer as well. He would grow in size and cunning, and then the Realms would tremble beneath his paws.

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been told by my beta that the ending is abrupt. I’m inclined to agree, but after a little soul searching I’ve decided to leave it as is. Anything after this that I would try to add would compromise it, in my opinion.
> 
> And no, I’ve never read White Fang before in my entire life. Of course not. Jack London? Who’s that? He’s totally not one of my favorite authors and I have not spent the last few weeks listening to the White Fang audio book on continuous loop… yeah...
> 
> Dark Instinct / Rages: To anyone with even a passing familiarity with Fenrir in mythology, this should be a fairly clear reference to what he is (possibly) destined to become, come the time of Ragnarök. If you don’t know, it’s incredibly easy to look up. :)
> 
> Járnviðr: This is the ‘iron-wood,’ found ‘east of Midgard,’ where dwells Angrboda. For the purposes of this series, without getting too specific about location, it’s generally thought that Járnviðr is somewhere in the vicinity of Jötunheimr, rather than being near Midgard. A slight poetic liberty.
> 
> Angrboda: Angrboda, also known as the Hag of the Iron-Wood, (hag as in wise woman),is the wife or lover of Loki - accounts vary, though interestingly if she is a lover of Loki, then Loki is considered her consort, not the other way around. A wolf shapeshifter, leader of the Wolf Clan, Chief of the Nine Clans of Járnviðr, and sorceress among many other things, she is one badass lady. What becomes of her after the taking of the triplets is somewhat hazy, and should still be considered so here. Because Gods.  
>  _Edit:_ It should be noted that some details concerning Angrboda are quite possibly UPG (Unsubstantiated Personal Gnosis) that's been mixed in with verifiable lore. I've had some trouble verifying, for example, that she was Chief of the Nine Clans... or that there _are_ Nine Clans, for that matter. It will hold for the purposes of story, but be aware if you try showing off to your Heathen friends.
> 
> The Taking of Loki’s Children: This is accurate to the lore, at least in the basics. When those in Asgard learned of Loki’s children by Angrboda, they made the connection between them and those they had heard of in the prophesy of Ragnarök, and Odin ordered that they be taken and dealt with. Hela was cast down into Niflheimr, Jör was tossed into the sea surrounding Midgard and Fen was taken to Asgard. Obviously there are some differences for this series, and poor Fen is unaware of anything that happened leading up to their abduction, so until more is revealed, it’s left up to reader interpretation just how far we are diverging. :)
> 
> Bqllr: This is a Norse curse, meaning, basically, ‘balls,’ or ‘penis.’ I wanted Fen to curse, but anything in English sounded weird, so he’s going old world-y.
> 
> Jötynja: This is the feminine term for one from Jötunheimr, with the masculine being ‘Jötun.’ For anyone who is curious, ‘Jötunar’ is the word for multiple frost giants. 
> 
> **Thanks for reading, everyone, until next time!**


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